


Home

by CaptainSlow



Series: Coming Back To You Universe [5]
Category: Rammstein
Genre: M/M, a brief mention of the rest of them too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:41:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24860233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainSlow/pseuds/CaptainSlow
Summary: "So what's it between you and Paul?" Till asks bluntly.To his certain satisfaction, Richard gives him a startled, almost frightened, look. Albeit being brief – because he almost immediately fixes his gaze back on the pavement – it's more than enough for Till to know he's hit the target. Oh boy, so it's a lovers' tiff.
Relationships: Richard Kruspe/Paul Landers
Series: Coming Back To You Universe [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1785925
Comments: 12
Kudos: 40





	Home

_Here is a song  
From the wrong side of town  
Where I'm bound  
To the ground  
By the loneliest sound  
That pounds from within  
And is pinning me down.*©_

**1989.** **Till**

"A little birdie told me that we might see our runaway guitarist tonight."

Lazily rotating a beer bottle between his thumb and forefinger, Schneider looks positively smug. He's leaning against the frayed wall painted into an utterly indeterminable colour, radiating confidence and complacency. His eyes are fixed on the wet beer blotch on the rough wooden surface of the table the five of them are sitting at, and his cheeks – Till can see it even in the dim light from the dusty bulb hanging from the wire above them – are the nice shade of healthy pink. It might be caused by the alcohol circulating in his system, or – which is more likely as far as Till knows, or at least he wants to hope so – by the fact that the toe of his shoe has been subtly bothering Schneider's calf for the past fifteen minutes or so. 

"I take it our _runaway guitarist_ is the one who goes by the name of Richard?" Flake raises a sceptical eyebrow, viewing the drummer with obvious doubt.

Which is very well justified – after all, people don't run across the border risking their lives just to come waltzing back a few months later. After the fall of the Wall, many have returned, of course, but since nothing has been heard of Richard ever since the moment he escaped, Till – along with many others – supposed that he either wasn't planning on coming back at all, or probably wasn't alive to do that. Thankfully, both assumptions must have been wrong.

"How come you know all the little birdies around, huh, Schneiderlein?" Till smirks at the immediate change in Schneider's expression, perfectly aware of how he loathes this pet name. 

"I swear I'll bite your big stupid head off, Till, if you call me _that_ again!" He points his long, slender finger at him, looking so wonderfully exasperated, and his lips press together into a thin, angry, line.

So furious it hurts. Till almost grins in spite of the drummer's evident annoyance.

"Which stupid head are you talking about?" Flake sniggers, apparently drunk enough to allow himself to crack this kind of jokes. "I'd be on guard if I were you, Till. Certain people seem to believe he's got quite skilled with heads, if you know what I--"

"Oh will you just shut up already?!" Schneider scowls as his fist – playfully for the time being – punches Flake's shoulder, making the latter sway and spill his beer.

"Oh, shove off!" Christian laughs, righting his glasses on the bridge of his nose and dismissively waving his hand at him whilst trying to avoid the little beer puddle that's spreading on the table right in front of him.

_Oh boy, if Schneider only knew how ridiculously adorable he looks every time he pulls such a face._ Till hides his smirk behind his glass of beer, deciding upon giving up the argument – he wants to _drink_ his beer, after all, not to be soaked in it. 

"So he's back, you say?"

"I don't, but some people do," Schneider shrugs.

"What, and no one shot his sorry arse even once, huh?" Paul, who didn't participate in the recent antics, asks from the further end of the table where he's been silently moping over his drink ever since they met.

It makes Till give him a proper look for what feels like the first time this evening because he's all but forgotten about Paul's presence, and that's already an absurdity in itself – Paul is Paul, he tends to make himself known wherever he is.

Well, he can certainly use the guy's unnatural quietness as an excuse for that. Now that he thinks of it, he's hardly uttered a single word tonight, making the task of actually forgetting about him all too easy. Besides, in Till's opinion – which he'll also keep to himself, out of harm's way – Paul's odd sulkiness makes him look even scrawnier than he really is, as if on a normal day his innate vivacity and never-ending stream of words somehow manage to add a few pounds to his weight.

"I guess you'll have the chance to inquire after his arse yourself, Paul," Schneider replies, the edge suddenly leaving his voice completely.

Till expects more stupid jokes to spring out from the 'arse' topic, but, quite surprisingly, there are none. Schneider just gives Paul a steady look, his eyes serious and… what's that? Could it be concern? He shifts his gaze to Paul, only to find out that he's already half way into being properly sloshed, no matter how clearly his voice sounded. There must have been quite a bit more than contents of one bottle going down Paul's throat while the rest of them were busy talking. 

In this staring contest between Schneider and himself, Paul's the first to lower his eyes. A quiet, strangely bitter, huff leaves his mouth as he shakes his head and takes a swig from his bottle, refraining from saying anything else. Till turns to Flake, raising his eyebrow in silent question, but Christian only rolls his eyes, apparently suggesting that the issue had better be forgotten and Paul left alone.

And so it is, but only until the moment that proves that Schneider wasn't pulling their leg, and the prodigal son actually arrives in the flesh. Sleek as ever, hair dyed blond, wearing a trendy leather jacket, insolently blue jeans and a triumphant smile. Paul, Schneider and Olli are the first ones to see him because they have the almost perfect view of the club entrance. Richard notices them, too, his grin getting even wider. He waves at them and opens his mouth to say something--

\--and then everything happens so fast Till's brain barely has enough time to process what the hell is going on, let alone understand _why_ it's going on.

Paul, who's been sitting at the butt end of the table, suddenly leaps from his seat – with surprising swiftness for someone who's as drunk as he is – and dashes towards Richard. For one single heartbeat, Till is sure he's going to tacklehug him or something of that sort, and he's on the verge of letting out a laugh but it gets stuck in his throat when, instead of showing any kind of friendly affection, Paul actually punches Richard straight in the face. The latter isn't even given a chance to say anything, and they both collapse on the floor. People sitting at the nearest tables turn to stare at the commotion, surprised, some already on the verge of jumping off their seats to start dragging them apart.

"You son of a bitch!" Paul almost growls – Till's more than certain that he would have growled weren't he so plastered – as he furiously clutches at the lapels of Richard's jacket, by the looks of things obviously intending to go homicidal. That's already surprising in and of itself, but the fact that Richard doesn't make a single attempt to protect himself, lying there motionless beneath Paul, makes Till's jaw gravitate towards the floor.

He is half-way off his chair with every intention of preventing the inevitable bloodshed when Schneider's warm hand all of a sudden lands onto his wrist, firmly holding him in place, and, obediently, Till freezes in that half-standing position, shifting his gaze between him and those terrible terror twins on the floor.

"For fuck's sake, Paul!" Ridiculous as it may sound, it seems as if Richard actually laughs. Well, as much as he can in his present position, with Paul almost straddling his chest. "Thought you'd be--"

"Fuck you!" Paul spits out angrily, letting go of Richard's jacket and making an unsteady attempt to get back to his feet.

Till stares at this little fury incarnate – who actually looks way more frightening right now than Schneider has any chance of ever becoming even if he spends a lifetime practising a good scowl – and wonders what on Earth has possessed Paul, whom he's always considered to be an amiable even if a bit raucous and obstinate fellow. Then he stares at Richard, who's willingly surrendering to this drunken spitfire. He's more than sure he could have easily knocked Paul out, what with his wrestling experience and the weight difference, and he finds himself at a complete loss as to what to make out of what he sees.

"Wait, you moron, let me--" Richard's voice sounds a bit taken aback now, and he's trying to catch Paul by the sleeve of his jumper.

"Oh go fuck yourself!" Paul sneers drunkenly. "Bugger off to the West!"

He slaps Richard's hand away, then haphazardly manages to get up and angrily stomps out of the club without a single glance at anyone.

To Till's even greater surprise, Schneider emits a bark of hearty laughter, his glittering eyes fixed on Richard's face. 

"Now that was one good piece of advice, huh?"

He is the first to give Richard, who's glaring at him from the floor and apparently done with the laughing bit for the time being, a helping hand.

"Guard your tongue, you fairy," he grumbles, but accepts Schneider's help nonetheless.

"Look who's talking!" the fairy in question smiles, seemingly not insulted in the slightest, and slaps Richard on the shoulder. "Your pretty mug is bleeding, by the way."

Cautiously, Richard touches the corner of his mouth where Paul's fist caught him, winces and licks his lacerated lip. He slumps heavily down exactly where Paul was sitting just a while ago, gratefully accepting the glass of beer Till sympathetically pushes towards him.

"So," Richard says after he takes a proper gulp, in a sort of voice which is almost nonchalant, as if there hadn't been any brawling going on not five minutes ago. He even gives smiling another try, but this time it doesn't come out as bright as before. "What's up everyone? Much's changed since I last saw you all, huh?"

It's not before they leave the club much later that night that Till finally gets a chance to talk to Richard in private.

The sky above them is overcast, but it doesn't feel like it's going to rain tonight, and the air is still and pleasantly cool. It's not all that tranquil inside Till's head, however, because he's somewhat preoccupied and quite intrigued with what took place earlier. 

First, there's Paul's freakish behaviour. Before tonight, Till was sure he'd got to know the guy pretty well, but now that seems to be slightly exaggerated. Oh, yes, he can be stubborn as a mule and has a way with words – something which, complemented by Flake's sarcastic remarks now and then, makes the two of them an amusing company to be in – but Till would have never described him as a moody or aggressive type. Today it turned out he can be both.

Then, there's Richard's uncharacteristic reaction, or rather, the _lack_ of such, and the fact that he's obviously hell bent on _not_ discussing any of what took place earlier on. Back in the club, he managed to jokingly evade all the questions about why Paul would possibly want to smack him square in the face even though, Till is certain of it, he knew the reason pretty well yet didn't feel like sharing it with them. That was perhaps the main explanation why he kept his mouth shut about the entire situation, otherwise, knowing Richard, they wouldn't have heard the end of it.

And, finally, there's the way the rest of the guys acted. Which is to say, they didn't. As if they hadn't even been surprised. As if they'd expected something like that to happen. As if they'd known something Till had no idea about. And the more he thinks about it, the more he finds himself believing that there's something seriously wrong with the very air in this city and that it must be taking its toll on everyone who's been breathing it long enough. Paul freaking out in public, Richard taking a beating with a laugh, Schneider and his strange interest in certain items of female clothing… Christian and Olli have always seemed to be the most sensible… which, for all Till knows, might also mean that they are really the most deranged ones, he'll just have to wait awhile longer to find it out.

Among the six of them, however, Richard is his closest friend, so Till does want to know what the hell is going on with him, if not with all the rest.

"So what was that performance all about?" he asks, lighting up a cigarette as they walk back home through the quiet Berlin streets.

Tonight's 'home' is Schneider's flat, but they are going to have it all for themselves since the latter claimed he had plans and galloped happily into the night. Till doesn't want to even start to imagine what kind of plans those might be.

Richard doesn't answer immediately. He takes his time, walking in sullen silence, and then just shrugs, obviously trying to act as if it was no big deal. His unhappy huff kind of gives him away, though, which means that the whole circus has affected him quite a bit more than he lets on, after all.

"Ask Paul," he mutters at last, avoiding looking at Till – his eyes are fixed on the cobble-stoned pavement in front of him. "I'm not the one who punches innocent people."

He sounds resentful, and his hands, which are stuck into the pockets of his jeans, are clenched into fists. Well, his feathers are certainly very ruffled even now, but Till isn't sure whether it's because Paul's spoiled his pretty face or if there's something more serious to it than just that.

"You know," Till goes on ignoring Richard's elusive remark completely, "I wouldn't have believed you could tolerate physical violence so well if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes."

"Well, you've seen it now, congratulations," Richard grunts, groping for a pack of cigarettes in the pocket of his jacket.

For a while, Till just watches him with amusement. Now that they've left the club and got rid of the audience, Richard seems far from being at ease. His lips are pursed into a thin line, his shoulders are stiff and he's got that one-third taken aback, two-thirds grim expression.

He takes a shaky drag, lets the smoke out, then repeats the process until half of the cigarette is gone.

"I have no fucking clue what that was about," he finally says, a bit more calmly this time. "And just so you know, I'm not into kicking the arses of the people I consider my friends even if they're making complete bastards out of themselves. So there you go."

_Friends_ , Till muses as he nods, humming in agreement and quietly remembering all the times Richard had absolutely zero problems with kicking his friends' arses. The West must have changed his views on life considerably, it seems.

"How long have you known each other?" he asks after a while, in a conversational sort of way, when Richard's inhales start sounding slightly less resentful.

"Is it an interrogation, huh?" For the first time since they left the club, Richard actually produces a semblance of a laugh. "I've had enough of those over the past few months."

"No," Till shrugs, doing the best he can to stifle the smile that starts to pull at the corners of his mouth. He fixes his gaze on the pavement and bites the inside of his cheek – laughing won't do him any good right now, he reckons, and will most certainly make Richard even more pissed off than he already is. "Just wondering. It's just that I'd never have thought Paul could be the one to clobber people. He always seemed like a friendly fellow."

"For almost a couple of years now." With a heavy sigh, Richard dumps his cigarette into the drain. "And you just wait, you simply don't know him well enough. If you think he's a bloody ray of sunshine, you're in for a surprise."

"Well, I wouldn't have put it that way, but I guess you have a point."

" _He is not_ ," Richard retorts, angrily accentuating every single word. 

So he _does_ know Paul pretty well not to be particularly taken aback by tonight's events.

"Frankly," Richard suddenly smiles and then immediately winces as it must have bothered his split lip, "of all people who might have tried to kick my arse for my escape, I was sure you'd be the first in line."

"Frankly," Till echoes mockingly, “I was about to do just that, but Paul was faster than me." 

Richard laughs, and Till's on the verge of following his example when a sudden insight mutes any sounds that were about to leave his mouth.

It is true, he did feel like giving Richard a sound thrashing, exercising the rights of an old friend. He was worried sick in the beginning and then he simply had nothing left to do but to resign to the thought of never seeing Richard again. No shit, he was angry with him! It's just that he was way too glad to see the man safe and sound to even bother with telling him off straight away. So could it be that Paul's anger was caused by the same reason? Could it be that Paul had also been worried sick?

And then there was that glimpse of sympathy in Schneider's eyes – Till thought he was misinterpreting it, but what if it was sympathy? And besides, there's always been something about Richard he couldn't really put his finger on before… 

Till smirks discreetly – it's starting to seem he's finally on to something here.

"So what's it between you and Paul?" he asks bluntly. 

To his certain satisfaction, Richard gives him a startled, almost frightened, look. Albeit being brief – because he almost immediately fixes his gaze back on the pavement – it's more than enough for Till to know he's hit the target. Oh boy, so it's a lovers' tiff.

"What makes you think--"

"Oh, cut the crap, will you?" Till chuckles good-naturedly. "You know that I know you better than that."

Richard doesn't say anything to confirm Till's suspicions, but he stops arguing. The silence, broken only by the sound of their footsteps on the pavement under their feet, stretches for so long that Till begins to think he's simply decided to ignore the issue. When at last Richard does speak, his voice is quiet but steady. And, certainly, very pained.

"I sleep with him," he says, refusing to look anywhere but strictly in front of himself. "Well, _slept_ is more like it now."

And by the looks of it, the past tense obviously bothers him a lot. Till can't hold back a quiet laugh for the life of him, even if it means he'll have to deal with Richard's subsequent flash of anger. But seriously now, they've all gone barking mad here.

Richard gives him a sideways glare, which is now indeed more pissed off rather than pained, so Till had better start explaining himself, sooner rather than later, too, because he suspects that the _'no kicking friends' arses_ ' policy must have its limits. Especially taking into consideration that Till does not sleep with him, never has and doesn't feel like doing it any time soon, thank you very much.

"You don't cease to amaze me," he finally says, but that only earns him an exasperated _'Fuck you!'_ as Richard picks up the pace. "I'm just kidding, Richard, chill!" Till laughs and catches up with him, but that results in another glare. "Oh come on, I meant that as a compliment!"

Richard is still obviously too much not in the mood for talking, judging by his ever so prominent grimace, although now it seems to be compromised by the beginnings of an involuntary smile.

"For how long?" Till asks, genuinely curious now.

"For long," Richard snaps, irritated. 

"Is it why you didn't want me to move in with you?" he goes on, amused, when the pieces of this weird jigsaw look like they've finally fallen into place.

"Huh?"

"I mean back when you were sharing a flat with Schneider and he moved out? I was looking for a place to live."

"Well, we did need a place, too… oh, what does it even matter now!" Richard huffs with a shrug. "I thought he'd be glad to see me." 

He sighs, taking out another cigarette and sticking it in between his lips, looking deeply offended.

"You idiot,” Till chuckles in spite of himself and shakes his head.

"Told you to fuck off."

This time it sounds a bit less angry and quite a bit more vexed, and Till has to resist the urge to wrap this big moron into a hug. Because the moron in question obviously hasn't got at the root of the problem yet.

"You see, Richard, there's such phenomenon as _worrying_ about the loved ones," Till says carefully, "and human species tends to fall prey to this silly little emotion, whether you like it or not." 

Richard gives him another sideways glare, but Till manages to notice a strange mixture of surprise, doubt and hope all rolled in one.

"We're not in l--” Richard makes an attempt at explaining something that Till doesn't need an explanation for, so he interrupts.

"Shut up, just for one moment, will you?"

Richard obeys, even if somewhat sullenly, so Till goes on.

"I don't care _what_ you two are, as long as you don't kill one another. Just go talk to him and stop being miserable."

"So what do you suggest, huh? Bringing him sweets and flowers? It's likely he'll stick them far up my arse," Richard mutters, exhaling a small cloud of smoke, but thankfully doesn't glare anymore.

"I'd personally suggest bringing some beer, but it seems like you indeed know him better," Till laughs and pats Richard on the shoulder.

"Why, Till?" Suddenly, Richard stops, for the first time looking him straight in the eye.

"Why what?" Till stops as well and watches him, smiling.

"Why are we even having this conversation? Why would _you_ care?"

"Because I care about you, you fool. I haven't seen you for ages. I was pretty sure you kicked the bucket out there somewhere. And now you come back and keep being miserable. It's quite annoying, let me tell you," Till smiles, then finally wraps his arm around Richard's shoulders, beckoning him to keep going.

"I'm not being--"

"Oh shut the fuck up!" Till laughs, mussing Richard's recently dyed hair. "I'm not that big stupid village lad you sometimes think I am. Just do what I tell you once in a lifetime and you'll be okay. Both of you."

Sometimes – not as often now as it will soon be – Till really feels like he's got that troublesome, arrogant little brother, absolutely impossible to tolerate but similarly impossible not to love all the same.

**1989\. Richard**

"You're still mad with me, huh?" Richard asks as he reaches out towards the chest of drawers beside the bed, groping in the darkness for his pack of cigarettes.

He is so knackered he doesn't really feel like moving anything at all, but the desire to have a smoke overshadows the physical exhaustion. Besides, it's still a very nice kind of exhaustion, the post-orgasmic type, so he doesn't particularly mind it. If only the bloody cigarette could light itself and relocate to his mouth…

He sighs with relief as his fingers finally manage to grasp the elusive pack, and, thank heaven for small mercies, there's the lighter right on top of it. Richard fetches it all back with a sense of accomplishment.

Paul seems not to have heard his question – or he's simply decided to ignore it, which in its turn might mean that, yes, the stubborn little bastard is still quite angry with him. For the time being, though – while he fishes out a cig, sticks it in between his lips and lights it up, taking in a deep, contented drag from it – Richard decides not to bother. He simply keeps lying there, in the midst of the tangled sheets of Paul's bed, enjoying the warmth that's radiating from Paul's naked body just a few inches away from his own and feeling strangely serene. It's all good. Every little thing seems to be just right, for the first time in God knows how many years.

The Wall – that hideous concrete atrocity that still technically runs through the city like a grotesque scar – is finally down. It's been down for more than a month, but even now Richard sometimes finds the entire thing hard to believe. He's back home, namely to that part of Berlin in which he's spent the past several years of his life and made so many new friends. The West, to his genuine surprise – even though nominally being the same old Berlin – felt weirdly alien despite all the freedom it possessed. But now he's just as free here, too, finally able to do whatever the hell he wants with his life without fearing for his arse. He can say whatever the hell he wants. He can finally listen to whatever the hell he wants. He can finally play whatever the hell he wants, in the open daylight. The feeling of freedom is intoxicating, and Richard softly smiles to himself, letting out a cloud of ghostly smoke. Outside, it's mid-December, damp and cold and drizzling, and he's lying in a warm bed and smoking some fancy cigarettes. It might be silly but it feels so ridiculously good all the same.

Another drag, and Richard's lips stretch into a wider smile as he senses a tiny movement to his left.

Apart from all the luxuries the freedom promises, being back here means being back with Paul again, and despite the rather disastrous reunion they had, they seem to be on the right track at last, at least as far as their _whatever-it-is-that-they-have-going-between-them_ is concerned. Paul might still be pissed off with him, of course, but hey, he _is_ with him. They're going to be alright. He'd have been kicked out and down the stairs otherwise, knowing that little wanker's temper. 

With the residue of the smile still lingering on his lips, Richard wonders – and it's not the first time he's done so by now – how in the hell's name they've managed to end up like this, _together_. Admitting it to himself that he was attracted to Paul was scary, but he's certainly past it now. After all, they've been having this affair – for the lack of a better word – for much longer than a year. Thinking of what Till implied a few days ago – all that ridiculous being in love thing – is also scary, but Richard decides to give pondering on it a miss tonight. To hell with it, he's feeling way too good to start all that self-analysing bullshit.

Wondering whether his partner's still angry with him or not is a different matter, though. 

"Paul," he calls quietly but a bit more persistently.

"Huh?" Paul sleepily hums, his voice muffled by the pillow but unmistakably sounding not particularly impressed.

"You still have your knickers in a twist?" Richard asks, and for now, in the velvety darkness around them, the question sounds soft.

"No," Paul huffs, and then mumbles as if with an afterthought, "We're fine."

Thoughtfully, Richard turns his head to take a look at him. He sounds genuine enough – even his huff does, although it can't _really_ be trusted, Paul's got professional at fooling people whenever it suits him – but to Richard something still seems off, even though he just can't put his finger on it yet. For some reason he feels it must be something important so he lets himself observe his _lover_ – and, oh, doesn't the word sound good, too – a bit more intently.

Paul is stretched on his stomach, facing away from him, and Richard lets his sight wander at leisure from Paul's toes, over his slender legs – one pulled to his chest, the other outstretched and hanging off the edge of the bed – to his narrow hips and his little tempting bum. Sometimes Richard wonders how the hell he can be this skinny considering he is hungry most of the time and eats like a horse because of it. All that energy must be spent on maintaining his way too rebellious and sometimes way too bubbly personality. His spine stands out like that of some prehistoric reptile, his shoulder blades and shoulders are jutting out, yet, inexplicably, Richard feels a huge, irresistible attraction to all those bones protruding out of his body. He still considers it strange that he's drawn to Paul's emaciated build this much, long after he stopped being surprised that he was drawn to Paul in the first place.

On the other hand, though, the man in question does look so horribly feminine at times, what with his shock of bleached hair and his remarkably tender features, that maybe it's not such a big surprise, after all. Richard's always been fond of those small delicate girls, so maybe Paul just suits the general rule. He wonders if he's still keen on getting his way into clubs for free by means of flirting with their owners, or whether he's finally outgrown that nasty, annoying habit. He genuinely hopes he has. It shouldn't really concern him all that much, Paul is a grown-up human being, after all, but for some reason it used to drive Richard up the wall all the same.

Thinking about it now, he smirks to himself, silently, then places his cigarette back into the ashtray on the chest of drawers and reaches out to run a caressing hand over all those numerous, deliciously standing out, vertebrae. His smile turns into a frown when Paul's body suddenly tenses beneath his fingers, however. Well, this is weird. What's even weirder is that it's not the first time it's happened tonight, and Richard finally realises what exactly seems wrong and why he keeps thinking that Paul must be mad with him.

It's his entire attitude, either wound-up or reserved or something of that sort, Richard can't yet quite figure it out precisely, and it was the same even when they were making love half an hour ago. He dismissed it back then, thinking he was either imagining things or blaming it on Paul still being sulky, but… well, who knows, he might have been sulky, all right. 

Experimentally, Richard draws another caress over Paul's back, this time with the entire palm of his hand, and what he sees now he likes even less than before – Paul does tense up again, his shoulder twitching – seemingly unconsciously – in a way as if he wanted to shake Richard's hand off himself.

"Hey, you don't like me touching you anymore, huh?" he ventures, making his voice sound joking, but beneath it there's an entirely new level of surprisingly profound confusion.

Shit, and why does everything concerning Paul make him react this acutely? Bloody Till and his bloody assumptions.

"What makes you think so?" Paul mumbles, sounding light-hearted enough, but Richard's hand still lies on his back and he can clearly feel even more tension seeping into his muscles. There's also a pretty audible nervous click in Paul's throat as he swallows the end of his question.

"Well, maybe the fact that I give you a start every time I do it?"

For now, Richard's voice is calm even if somewhat bewildered, but he knows himself very well, so he knows that if this thing isn't going to be resolved in the next few minutes, _he_ is going to be the one getting pissed off. He's done enough to make up with Paul, hasn't he? Now what?

He reckons it's still a bit too early to blow a fuse, though, and besides, he's feeling way too languid and generally too good to start a quarrel, so instead he rolls onto his side, closer to Paul's prostrated but no so relaxed body and hugs him tightly, burying his nose into the sweaty fine hair on Paul's nape, letting his arms snake around Paul's slender middle with customary possessiveness. 

"See?" he murmurs, pressing even closer, pushing his pelvis into the small of his lover's back and now definitely feeling his obvious discomfort. It feels like Paul's doing the best he can not to start tearing himself out of Richard's hold.

_Huh, was it like this earlier, and he simply didn't notice? Or has it just started? What the hell is going here?_

After a period of silence, which drags on for far too long for Richard's liking, Paul finally begins to relax. After a while longer, he emits a heavy sigh and fidgets uncomfortably in Richard's arms.

"I think I did a stupid thing," he finally mutters, apparently not overly excited about the prospects of having to talk about whatever it is he has done.

Well, at least he _does_ speak, and, knowing Paul, that's already something. Richard briefly wonders how it can be possible that someone as chatty as him can simultaneously give out so little when he doesn't feel like sharing information with others.

"What a novelty," he presently huffs, mostly in an attempt to lighten the mood because, to his surprise, it's suddenly not as light as it used to be ten minutes ago.

Paul, it seems, decides to ignore the sarcasm, which is probably not a particularly good sign.

"And I don't think you're going to like it a lot," he continues gravely.

"What I certainly don't like is you being all worked-up as if you're still pissed off with me. And if you are, I don't know what the fuck you want me to do. I said I was sorry I had to leave the city like that – not that I have to apologise at all – and now you know it wasn't really my fault that I couldn't tell anyone and that I had to escape--"

"'tis not that," Paul cuts in, sounding both annoyed and somewhat apprehensive.

"Oh?" If Richard wasn't sufficiently puzzled before, now he finally is.  
  
"Could you please let go of me for a moment because you're squeezing me so fucking tight I can barely breathe?" 

Now that's some news, too, Paul not liking being squeezed. Richard obliges without protesting, though. He's way too intrigued and just a little worried for that. He unlocks the hold of his arms around Paul but leaves his hand to rest on his hip.

"I slept with…" Paul falters and swallows nervously. "With someone while you were away..." His voice trails off and it feels like he's shrunk into himself even more. "And it got... well, a little out of hand and a little rough."

He shrugs with one shoulder, awkwardly.

"You _what_?" Richard asks, not sure if he's just misheard something.

Paul keeps silent, though, and, if such thing is at all possible, his silence sounds defiant. And this is when the penny drops at last, leaving Richard to stare at the back of his head through the darkness. The first part of what Paul said, about sleeping with someone, gives him a surprisingly painful blow. It shouldn't feel this way, Richard muses, a little dumbfounded, since they've never made any promises to be faithful to each other. Fuck's sake, they've never been in such a thing as relationship, for starters! But it still hurts him all right.

The second part is worse, however, because not only does it give him a sting of jealousy the intensity of which he'd never have expected in relation to, of all people, Paul, but it also makes him worried and scared and god knows what else.

"What do you mean, _'rough'_?'" Richard asks, his voice bewildered and because of it sounding perhaps way too harsh.

But he knows the answer, oh damn it, he does, doesn't he? You don't have to be a rocket scientist to figure it out.

"Well, somewhat... painfully unpleasant?" Paul ventures, almost testily. 

Richard feels himself shiver, and now there's not only jealousy, there's also anger. He doesn't know who the object of his anger is, Paul or whoever it is he's talking about, and for now it doesn't matter. Hardly aware of what he's doing, he slips his hand off Paul's hip and clenches the bed sheet into a fist.

"Who was it?"

"What--"

"Who was it?" Richard repeats, but more loudly and more hoarsely this time.

"Like hell will I tell you!" Paul huffs, sounding like he is already regretting telling Richard anything at all in the first place. "I'm not having you running around and--"

_"Who the fuck was it?!"_

This time Richard almost growls and pulls Paul abruptly to face him, the sudden intensity of his anger surprising even to himself. Screw that, he'll deal with this particular surprise later, he has some more important ones to sort out right now. 

"Get yourself off me!" Paul hisses at him, both looking and sounding so furious that Richard's hand – mostly out of sheer unexpectedness of it – leaves his shoulder before Paul can shake it off himself.

He then starts to get off the bed, swearing, and Richard comes back to his senses only when he is already sitting on its edge and reaching out for his pants.

"Wait, wait, wait!" He scrambles on to his hands and knees and reaches out for him. "Paul, wait!"

"Get the fuck off--"

" _I'm_ _sorry_!" Richard blurts, and fuck him sideways, he _means_ it. His hands come to rest on Paul's shoulders, preventing him from standing up, fingers squeezing on them frantically. "I really am. Wait, just wait, all right?" He scuttles closer, coming to rest on his haunches behind Paul. "Please?"

Paul lets out an exasperated sigh but remains where he is, still poised on the very edge of the bed and apparently ready to bolt the hell out of here any moment. 

Temporarily relieved, Richard faces another problem. Now what? He has no idea as to how he should react but he belatedly realises that anger, most certainly, is not going to get him far. He is still angry but he manages to suppress it for the time being, and, anyway, Paul is probably the last person he should get angry with.

What he does next is dictated purely by impulse and his gut feeling. 

Tentatively, he lets his hands slide slowly down Paul's shoulders, and as he leans in, he leaves a soft, almost frightened, kiss on one of them.

"Have I hurt you?" he asks, and now he's not only angry, he's nigh on terrified. What if he had?

"No," Paul says quietly, shaking his head a little, and Richard lets out a breath he's been holding.

"Can I hold you?"

This time Paul gives a little nod, and Richard finally lets his arms wrap around his shoulders properly. He does it with more care now that the comprehension has finally started to sink in.

"I'm sorry I freaked out," he murmurs, taken aback even more than before, both by what Paul's told him and his own reaction to it.

They spend a while like this, not moving, not talking, Richard breathing heavily because he is shocked and so unexpectedly hurt and angry and completely astonished all rolled in one, trying to somehow assess and place and comprehend all the facts and emotions that are all of a sudden threatening to tear him apart; Paul is even more tense and edgy, with his breath wheezing loudly because he is so obviously upset.

It is only much later that Paul starts to speak again. Richard doesn't know how much, but he knows it's been long enough for him to start to get cold sitting there all naked.

"I was just trying to get myself into a bar and, you know, all the jazz..."

Richard can't help but sigh heavily. Fucking bars and Paul's stupid fucking habits.

"And then there was that security guy hitting on me, I was drunk and miserable and so I thought a little fling wouldn't hurt."

Richard winces, not really wanting to hear the rest.

"I was sure I'd be able to talk my way out of it, you know, it wasn't the first time people had done that..."

"But you weren't," Richard states flatly.

"I know you warned me about it and--"

"Jesus Christ on a bike, I sleep with an idiot," Richard mutters in disbelief, more to himself than to Paul.

"Look, it wasn't all that dramatic. He wanted sex, and he was kind of pushing it, so I thought I'd be better off in the end if I just shut up and went along, you know, so I did, and, well, it got a little out of hand and I ended up a bit worse for wear, but nothing criminal really. Technically, it even was consensual."

"Technically, uh-huh," Richard shakes his head. "Consensual enough to make you flinch every fucking time I touch you."

"It's just..." Paul makes an attempt to contradict but gives up on it, shrugging his shoulders instead. Richard hugs him closer and presses his cheek to his, sighing deeply as one of Paul's hands uncertainly takes his. He squeezes it in return. "I didn't give it much thought back then. It wasn't nice, yeah, but… I don't know what got into me tonight."

To that, Richard doesn't answer anything at all.

"And, well, yeah. Apparently, you do sleep with an idiot," Paul finally huffs.

Richard only shakes his head again. It seems like the only way of communication left for him since he's mostly being speechless. 

"Still won't tell me the name?" he asks after a while.

"Of course, I won't. You'd screw his head off, ending up in jail or something."

"Of course, I would!" Richard sputters against the side of Paul's neck. _And not only his head_ , he thinks, but decides to keep that to himself.

"See?"

"Is it someone I know well?"

"Don't think so.

Richard sighs, finally giving up. He's known Paul long enough to learn that trying to break a brick wall with his head would probably be easier than trying to out-argue him. It's not like Richard is the most easy-going person in the world, either, and arguing with him wouldn't be any better, not at all, but tonight he decides to give it a miss. It's not the topic he would want to argue about in the first place, and unnerving Paul even more than he already is is certainly something he'd prefer to avoid. What he wants to do is somehow make Paul forget about what happened and make him feel better. He wants his normal, insolently cheerful, Paul back.

So, cautiously at first, Richard kisses the side of his neck and then, ever so slowly, leaves a trail of little pecks along his bony shoulder. He is being hesitant, partly because he's reluctant to unheedingly cause him more discomfort, psychological or else, partly because he truly wishes to _make love_ this time, properly; and now that he thinks of it, back to the moment they had sex earlier tonight, it really was nothing but quick and impatient. Most certainly, not a good start, given the circumstances, so he feels it's crucial to be gentle now.

Because no one else touches _his_ Paul. No one has the fucking right to hurt him. As to why and when exactly he became _his_ Paul – well, by this point Richard has given up on trying to understand it. He just _is_ , period.

When he, thankfully, feels no resistance from the man himself, he pulls him back down onto the bed, realising that now that he isn't so completely taken by his need, he can actually endure and enjoy being slow for a change.

"Whatcha doing?" Paul whispers.

He sounds so unusually quiet and taciturn it frightens Richard. At the same time, it makes his desire to make it good for Paul even more compulsive.

Their entire dialogue from the past quarter of an hour has consisted of these hushed, murmurs and whispers rather than normal speaking, and it somehow manages to create acute, unique intimacy. It feels as if there's no one else in the entire world but the two of them, safe together in this peace and tranquillity of the moment, so Richard does his best not to break it with either harsh words or careless actions. 

"Making love to you," he replies, barely pronouncing the words, breathing them against Paul's cheek. He kisses his way down to his ear, and then goes on, his voice just a little unsteady, "Promise me you're done with that shit?"

"Promise."

"I'll never hurt you," Richard whispers, almost inaudibly. The quieter he is, the more honest his vow seems to be. "Not like this."

"I know," Paul murmurs in reply, and that's it, something painfully special flashing between them, and for a moment all Richard wants to do is laugh out loud with pure joy that's filling him, or maybe scream, for the same reason, or kiss Paul all over again and again.

He resorts to the latter, sticking to his intention of making his lover feel good again. He draws him back in bed, lavishing kisses on him, savouring his taste on the tip of his tongue; and touches him all over, relishing the feel of his cool skin; and then takes him into his mouth and brings Paul to the point where he gets much more vocal, moaning words out loud in incoherent strings instead of whispering them.

He just _adores_ his voice, Richard realises. He is absolutely mad about how it sounds when Paul gasps his name, again and again in his pre-orgasmic frenzy. He likes Paul's fingers, delicate but strong, clutching at his hair, pulling him closer, deeper into his groin until all there is is the taste of Paul filling his mouth. Right at this moment, Richard worships every single protruding bone in his slender body, his skin, smooth and silky, his voice, now hoarse with need, his hands, strong and rough entangled into his hair, his cock, slick with Richard's own saliva, the way Paul's pelvis twitches and jerks as he rushes towards his inevitable release.

And then there's also this odd, inexplicable chemistry they share, one that's been with them right from day one. As if to understand each other, they don't even need half a word – half a glance is already enough. As if they can foretell the other's next action. As if they can read the other's thoughts and desires before they're voiced.

It's not the first time it's happened to them, and maybe this is the very reason why they have kept this thing going for this long. Probably this is the very reason why playing together seems to come so naturally to them. There's no name for this thing yet, but it's all right because Richard doesn't need it labelled. All he needs to know is that it makes them both feel good, so it makes everything justified.

Till – the wonderful observer that he is – was nothing if not correct in his conclusions about them, even if probably just a bit too early. There is love between the two, already, but no word of it will be spoken for the following ten years, and then they'll need even more time to finally speak of it and be able to deal with the consequences. But none of them needs words to help them understand – even if, for now, on purely instinctual level – what exactly is going on. They have no means to describe it yet, but the feeling's there all the same, warm and fuzzy and aching and ever so precious.

Unconsciously, at this very moment, he _loves_ Paul, every single thing about him, and, unconsciously, he knows that Paul loves him back. And that's all that matters.

Later, when both of them are on the brink of dozing off, Richard nuzzles his lips against Paul's warm cheek.

"We'll be in a band one day," he murmurs and sleepily reaches out for Paul's hand.

"We already are." There's a quiet, drowsy, giggle as warm fingers squeeze his in return. "In _bands_."

"In a proper one," Richard smiles. " _Together_. And we're gonna be big."

He doesn't know if Paul takes him seriously – or even hears him, for that matter – but it's not all that important. What is important is that he is certain about it. They will be in a band, and they will be together because it's the only right way, because there's chemistry between them, this wonderful, warm, perfect chemistry…

Richard drifts off to sleep, still smiling against Paul's shoulder.

_God send the only true friend I call mine_ _  
Pretend that I'll make amends the next time  
Befriend the glorious end of the line  
And I thank you for bringing me here  
For showing me home_ _.*©_

**Author's Note:**

> Now there is a bit of drama involved, enough sunshine and lollipops. 
> 
> I guess this must have been inspired by what I either heard or read somewhere about what Paul used to do when he was young, that being getting himself in bars and clubs for free dressed as a girl, which I'm almost 100% certain is not true. But that was enough to kick my imagination into work, so the entire thing ended up like this. 
> 
> In Till's POV, you might notice some sort of implied Till/Schneider, but that was a mere cheers to a friend of mine who loves the two of them dearly. 
> 
> *Home by Depeche Mode


End file.
